


Careful Consideration

by J_Hana



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Hana/pseuds/J_Hana
Summary: An alternate universe where June develops a bond with Fred over time instead of Serena.The story starts out similar to the TV show, but as changes build, small ripples send crashing waves.
Relationships: Commander Fred Waterford/Serena Joy Waterford, June Osborne | Offred/Commander Fred Waterford
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This would be a very lengthy work where I write at least a chapter for each episode in the show, so please be patient. Updates might slow down after August, but I don't expect to drop this whatsoever. This is also my first attempt at fanfic (although I've written stories in the past) so comments and suggestions are encouraged. The relationship between June and Fred would be similar to the one currently between June and Serena in the show, and I don't plan on romance between the two. There will be references from both the show and the book.

**Serena Joy Waterford**

There she sits, clad in red. The new Handmaid. 

She bows her head and the wings conceal her face, much to my joy. Her presence, though, is something different altogether, and I remind myself that she is needed to bring me a child of my own. If she's not barren, that is. Handmaids were chosen because of their fruitfulness, yes, but it's no secret that children are harder to come by these days. 

"This is your second posting, then?"

"Yes, Ma'am," she answers obediently. So there is still hope. There were talks that her last Commander has had multiple Handmaids, but none had produced. It could only mean one thing, one thing that supposedly doesn't exist anymore, but I know that it is not true. 

I stick to what's neccesary, saving unneeded words. I'm sure we have mutual feelings on the presence of one another, not that I enjoy having mutual feelings with a Handmaid. 

_Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am._ She sounds like an over-winded doll, and I stop myself from snapping at her.

"Do not call me Ma'am. You're not a Martha," I say in a controlled voice instead, showing only a hint of annoyance. Light seeps through the curtains and falls on her head, almost creating a halo, as if the red isn't already catching enough. She's a living reminder of what I'm not capable of, what _Fred's_ not capable of, and I only want her out of my sight as soon as possible. 

Speaking of the devil. 

Heavy footsteps approach and stop, and I look up to find Fred beside me. He eyes the Handmaid in an expression I can't quite place. Kindness...? It reminds me of what happened last time, what Fred _was_ capable of and what it led to, and I harden my gaze. But, of course, the Handmaid can only see her lap with her head lowered, and Fred ignores it like a wisp of air. I tell myself that it doesn't matter. The Handmaid would either bear me a child and leave, or leave after her time has ended. Either way, it's only her funtionality I should be concerned about. And her obedience.

I watch as they greet each other. Carefully chosen words known by heart. Fred is being nicer than usual, I gather from the tone of his voice. _Don't do that again, Fred._ I say in my head. Not that he would hear it, of course, and I doubt he would listen anyways. The details of our last Handmaid's death finds me again, Rita's cautious voice ringing in my ears, and I take a deep breath and push the memory away. I don't want to hear about something like that again, no matter who the victim is. 

"Nice to meet you," Fred says before finally turning away. I arche my eyebrows just slightly at his back. 

"You too," she mutters, and I taste icy metal in my mouth. Fred is _my_ husband, and you are _not_ taking him away from me. 

You'll learn your place, Offred. 

The place of a Handmaid. 

**June Osborne**

I shop. I avoid my mistress. I get raped once a month. 

Welcome to fucking Gilead. 

The Commander moves on top of me. Inside me. And my body moves back and forth, back and forth, following a steady rhythm. I try not to pay attention to the noises, but it's impossible in the silence. I look at the ceiling instead, seeking anything that could distract me, but it's just a stupid slab of teal. 

Well, duh, of course. They don't allow fancy wallpaper anymore.

Still, I choose to focus on the boring color instead of the fact that I'm being fucked. Does it count as rape if I chose to be a Handmaid rather than being sent to the Colonies? Moira would say yes. Mom would say yes. And I think, at this very single moment, I would also say yes. Fucked. Raped. Whatever it is, I do not want this. 

I used to own something the color of teal. A mitten? A mug? I don't really remember, but I long for those days to come back. Days where rape was actually fucking illegal. Days where teal was more than just a symbol of status, so that color wouldn't end up on the peope and places I hate. I'm always surrounded in teal during the Ceremony. I look up, I see teal. I move my head, I sink even further into a pool of teal. Teal. Teal. Teal. There's no escaping. Teal.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. As much as I hate this whole thing, I have to admit that the steady movements make detachment a lot easier. It's like beats of percussion, only I'd imagine drumsticks don't end up inside your vagina. If you're sober.

My hands are numb from the Wife's grip, but at least it serves as a distraction. I think back to the start of this Ceremony, when I knelt on a small red cushion in that room, waiting. The Ceremony is supposedly the Wife's domain, but of course that's a joke. Nothing is a woman's domain anymore, not in Gilead. The Commander has to knock, sure, but he can also be as late as he wants, which was what happened. The Wife certainly couldn't stop him. She smoked and complained then. I doubt she is pleased now. 

Back. 

_Fuck you._

Forth.

_Fuck you._

Back. 

_Fuck you._

Forth.

_Fuck you._

And it finally stopped.

* * *

Light threatens to burn through my eyelids, and my body gets up on its own despite the weariness, as if on command. I get ready and return to my room, catching myself staring out the window again. I think of Rapunzel, a trapped girl in a fairytale from the life before. How she never resisted going into the tower at the age of twelve, how she never thought about running away from the sorceress. She was in a tower with no door, sure, but I never understood what stopped her from making a plan. Could've made a rope with her hair before Prince Charming came along, I used to think. 

But it's so much more complicated than that, I know now. 

The walls press in, and I struggle to breathe. Doesn't matter if the windowsill's embroidered or the furnitures are nicely arranged, a prison is a prison all the same. Rapunzel wouldn't have thought about putting a foot outside that tower, fuck no. All the price she would've paid for that, and she did pay. Gilead knows no bounds, Aunt Lydia would say. Gilead is within you. Maybe I've become Rapunzel now. 

The bell chimes three times, and I lose my train of thought. Salvaging day. 

I stare at the ground and join Ofglen, and the number of red dresses I catch out of the corner of my eye keep growing as we walk. We arrange ourselves in neat lines, the only way it's allowed, like streams of blood flowing to the heart. Only this heart might burst any time.

I blank out as Aunt Lydia goes on and on, my head bowed, kneeling. It seems that I hardly sit anymore. It's always walking, or standing, or lying, or kneeling. Endless kneeling, a symbol of my own status in Gilead.

I hear the word _rape_ and snap back. I force myself to listen. Aunt Lydia continues to recount his deed, and I can hardly hear her words as blood rushes to my head, leaving an unpleasant ringing in my ears. I can hear my pulse, feel every single one, and I grit my teeth to feel my face again.

The odds of a Particicution the day after my Ceremony.

Aunt Lydia's whistle pierces my skull, and I find myself kicking the man. With each impact vibrations travel up my bones, my foot, my calf, my thigh, it resonates inside me. His arm is already twisted at an odd angle, an authentication of what we are capable of, what we have done. Another kick finds his chest, and he sprays out blood like a fountain. I might've laughed, had it just been red wine. Red wine. Red. Red everywhere. I see red. I feel red. I want more red. His face becomes a different Commander with each thud, and I see my last one, this one, the countless ones I happen to catch on TV. 

This man raped a Handmaid. 

I kick his face even harder, again. Screams and howls rise around me, and I find myself contributing, turning into a beast.

We are all beasts. 


	2. Chapter 2

**June Osborne**

I've been here for a while, my new posting. I know that because I just had another Ceremony last night. It's bizarre that I now keep track of time by counting the number of Ceremonies I've had, as if it's a much looked-forward-to event each month. It. Is. _Not_. Back when I was still in the Red Center, I used to think about scratching marks to keep track of the days. Moira liked the idea, and we took turns looking at discreet paces. We couldn't find anything that even came close. Anything that can mark a wall can mark skin, I suppose. They won't let us do that, whoever _they_ are. Whoever built this place. They think we are precious resources that must be preserved. Now I just tell myself that maybe nothing would come out of recording the days anyway, not when I have trouble telling the first fucking day of a month.

I've been catching on things, too, mostly from sneaking around the house. The Commander's very powerful, for instance, which doesn't come across as a surprise, judging by the furnishing and food. His Wife, I realized a few weeks earlier, was a rather public figure pre-Gilead, and I vaguely remember her face from the news on TV. Her name was Serena Joy, I think, and she gave many speeches in colleges, which unsurprisingly had large groups of protestors each time. Now I wonder how an idea so despised has become a reality.

Earlier today, the driver came to deliver a message from the Commander. His name's Nick, I had learned. We don't talk much because that's not allowed, but from the few times we did quietly exchange words, he seems nice enough. The Commander, though, is another beast completely, and I realize I've barely seen him around except for the Ceremonies. He must be busy, but what for? Convincing other countries that Gilead's way is the best one? I doubt anyone outside Gilead would believe in that bullshit. Worse, he probably genuinely believe in it and had contributed to the establishment of Gilead, judging by his status. If so, I must hate him, but can you hate someone you barely know? I find myself unable to place my feelings for any of it. The Commander. The request. It's not like I haven't done forbidden things before--it's hard not to do forbidden things in this place, but to be so blatantly ignoring the rules...something would happen for sure, endless possibilities for my doom. 

And I can't say no. 

So I focus on the matter at hand instead, the birth of Janine's baby. I try not to think about the Wives' attitude, or what they get to have afterwards. That certainly wouldn't help Janine right now. The other Handmaids are chanting in a monotonous voice, almost like a choir of robots, and I join them. The room is muggy, quickly filling up with the smell of sweat. I remember my Hannah, then Luke, then Moira, and I force myself to follow the chant again.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Hold. Hold. Hold. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

When have I become so good at detaching?

**Fred Waterford**

Night has fallen. I turn on the lamps in my office and sit back at my desk. Working extra never hurts, especially when trade delegations haven't been going too smoothly. I skim over the paperworks for obvious errors, reread them to check for possible loopholes, and sign them at the end. Gilead is still a young nation, and we must do what we can to see it prosper. Those who oppose us just don't understand the priorities of this dying world. 

Women were so lost in the world before, trapped by needs and wants. They needed to return to their traiditional values, as Serena had often said. That's why we built this one, so that they can carry out their God given duties in protection and peace. Serena was such an activist in the world before, always writing and giving speeches. She spoke her mind. She wasn't afraid to go against the flow. Things were different then, of course, and I can't be more glad to see her well-protected now. She once told me to become a man, and I think I've become one by building a better world. A better world for her. A better world for our children. 

The shortest clock handle moves to nine, and I prepare myself. At times like this, I often wonder if I should be doing it at all, and the answer always comes back to yes. If Serena's to be upset about the matter, then she'll never have to find out. If she's worried about my loyalty, then my loyalty certainly lies with her. But, truth be told, we haven't been able to do much together since the founding of Gilead, and maybe we are both too bound by the world before. Even the most pious have needs, so I don't see why I shouldn't grasp a piece from the past for entertainment. A special treat for the head of the household wouldn't hurt, would it?

A quick, timidful strain of knocks signify her presence. I walk over to the fireplace and lean on one elbow, then I casually put the other hand in my pocket. Old school, some would say. I tell her to enter.

She comes in and closes the door, and then she hesitates, even after I ask her to sit down. She keeps her head bowed and I can't make out her expression, but she seems to glance in the room from side to side, taking everything in. Perhaps she is curious, or merely stunned. The last one was unpleasantly surprised, as I recall, and it took a little too much effort to calm her down. 

"Please," I say, making sure my voice is kind. I pull out a chair for her. She sits. 

"Thank you for coming." Best to start this slowly, as Handmaids often receive this as a shock. It would be a pity if she tells this to someone later and has to be moved to somewhere...less than appealing, especially before we had a chance to get to know each other well. 

"You're welcome." The only acceptable reply. 

I tell her to look at me, and after some nudging, she complies. I make the rules here, after all. I stare into her eyes, and when she doesn't flinch over the eye contact, I indulge her with a soft smile. 

"Hello there," I greet. She appears as if a bashful child, and I control the urge to pet her like a puppy. If she's taken aback by the old greeting, she doesn't let it show. I take that the Rachel and Leah Center must have done its job very well. 

"I imagine you must find this strange," I continue. I don't shift my gaze from her face, and she stiffens. Her effort at searching for the correct reply is humorous. 

"I guess it's a little strange." The way she says that almost makes me chuckle, but I collect myself nonetheless.

I take out my box of Scrabble and ask her to play with me, not that I had given her an alternate choice to begin with. She stammers, as if caught in a dream, before finally agreeing. I lay down the board and toy with the letters in my fingers, taking in every side and edge of the cut wood. The request doesn't feel silly after all, and I wonder if the comment sounded too informal. It would've been silly in the world before, of course, but that certainly isn't the way now. I remember playing the very exact game with Serena, years ago, enjoying a quiet afternoon over chitchats and tea. Most hadn't realized the sheer privilege of being able to read and write back then, men and women.

How the circumstances have changed. 

_Nation_ , she starts. The nation we've created. Soon, a few decades later at most, no woman in Gilead would be able to read or write. Would she think back to the late night game of Scrabble, then, to a night of forbidden things? Would she savor the privilege she'd been granted, or would she resent the sliver of freedom? Women are indeed curious things.

She hesitates more and more with each turn, her hand constantly dancing to rearrange the letters on her stand, only to end on an uncertain hovering. As the box of letters empties, I consider if I should let her win. If she loses, it could be used as a leverage, but if she wins, she might like this much better. Besides, I don't need a leverage to make her return. I check what remains on my stand and decide to spread the blocks out in insignificant places. She doesn't notice the abnormality. 

"383...to 386," I pause a little for suspension. "You win."


	3. Chapter 3

**June Osborne**

I look forward to my shopping trips now. Ofglen has proven to be more enjoyable than she appears, but maybe we all are. Ever since the last Salvaging, she would fill me in on news from all over the country while we walk, where the rebels lost, which landmarks got torn down. We exchange the forbidden in secrecy, under heavy white wings, over whispered words. And boy, does that feel good.

There is an _us_ , she said once, and it made me feel just a tiny bit more hopeful. I find myself clinging unto small pieces like these now.

She would be happy to know that the Commander is going on a trip to D.C., even if it seems trivial. It would still help, wouldn't it? Anything could help. 

I remember the game of Scrabble with him last night. The books, the fireplace, the couches that we sat on. Reminants of the past. So familiar, yet so strange. I do wonder what his intentions are, what he wants out of it, what he wants for me. Because it wasn't just an act of kindness. A Commander simply doesn't do that for a Handmaid. This is Gilead, after all. 

There was a phrase for that in the time before. Power difference? Power imbalance. It becomes harder and harder to remember those words now. They slip through your mind every day, quicker and quicker, taunting at the tip of your tongue, but never coming to you at the appropriate moment. I wonder if this is how aging feels like, to sense so completely how your brain degenerates with every single little action, only to be forced to come to terms with it in the end. Power imbalance, I repeat. It's why dating your boss is strongly disencouraged in the workplace and can even be banned. Well, _was_. Back when there were still dates. Power imbalance. Stockholm syndrome. Date rape. So many words that have been erased. I force myself to remember them all, or as many as I can manage, at least.

Friends. Dates. Divorce. Sterile. Infertile. Fetus. Abortion. Rape. Rapist. Words, words, words, and I can't help but notice the resemblance to yesterday's Scrabble game. I still can't figure out why the Commander summoned me for it, but I will certainly return for the forbidden, for the erased. If he's going to use me for something, then I shall do the same to him. When he returns next week, I will be there to remember again, to take with me another piece from the past. 

I put on my wings and step out. The sun shines. There is a nice breeze. Ofglen is already waiting for me outside the gates, and I quicken my steps. I lock the gates behind me and step forward. She turns, and I swallow my surprise. Along with the dread. 

We walk in silence, like we are supposed to. Most Handmaids are not the little obedient red girls they appear to be, but I refrain from taking chances. We talk about the weather, the Lord's blessings, and other trivial things. I tell myself that it's probably not a good idea, but my curiosity prevails.

"Where is Ofglen?" I quickly whisper when we get a chance. 

"I _am_ Ofglen," she says.

**Serena Joy Waterford**

Naomi lives in a much more extensive household than I. It is more brightly lit, with graceful white walls and casement windows in the living room. The light shines through in a well-placed angle, calming me immediately. She offers tea, and we take gentle sips, savoring the flavor. 

I do wonder how it would be like to live in such a place sometimes, not that I wish for it, of course. I prefer something more modest anyways. Fred's house is smaller, but we set it up together. We went through the designs, the colors, the furnitures, and we mingled the things we liked. It signified a new beginning. It is proof of what we fought for. 

But preferences change, and I still wonder. 

I brought Offred along for the visit. She hasn't asked for her napkins this month, and I'm feeling more hopeful than usual. He is capable of great miracles, and maybe He has finally answered my call. If that's the case, a change of scenery would help to keep Offred in a good mood, which is needed to bring forth a healthy baby. More importantly, she could use the practice for when the time comes. 

The Wives and I take turns holding baby Angela, and my heart warms with each _ooh_ and _ah_ she makes. I think about my own baby after nine months, and I feel a smile tugging at my lips. Offred has slipped off somehow, perhaps to see her friend. I think about the limited contact she has most of the time, and I decide to let it slide. Just this once. 

I pass Angela back to Naomi and finish my tea. Then I take out the pile of folded baby clothes I knitted and put them on my lap.

"A gift for her," I say with a smile. 

Naomi looks at the clothes and smiles back, not bothering to hide her amazement. "Thank you, Serena. That's so thoughtful of you." 

"You are always so good at knitting," she says after a pause.

"Oh, yes. You should see the scarves I knit," Leah chuckles. "They are like bandages for a mummy." 

The other Wives join in and joke on their handiwork. It's strange to receive so many compliments all at once, even though compliments are still a part of our life in Gilead. Perhaps I've only stopped paying attention to it. It's the humbleness and modesty that make us women.

I let my hand sweep over the wool again, feeling the softness that caresses my fingers. It reminds me of the tenderness of my mother's words, the tenderness of a newborn. I haven't always been good at knitting, I almost tell them. I never thought I would be. I used to write and give speeches, things women shouldn't do but were needed to bring light to a fallen world. Fred and I always planned things together. I told him my ideas, and he listened to them...the way he doesn't now. Of course, things have changed now. Men take care of the politics in Gilead, and women take care of the family. I learned how to knit. I look after my garden. I built this world. I've put my past behind me.

* * *

**June Osborne**

I lie in bed. Not thinking. Or maybe I am, but my mind isn't spinning as fast as I'd like. It's dark now, and I can't see much. Not that there's much to see in my room anyways. You don't waste energy giving wombs nice furnishing. 

I feel groggy after the events of the last few days, but I can't fall asleep. I stare at the ceiling. It stares back, offering nothing. 

The removal of Ofglen. The interrogation. Janine and baby Ang—no, Charlotte. Serena Joy. God fucking awful Serena Joy.

The bruise on my face still hurts, but I will that away. You can't dwell on the pain if you want to survive in Gilead. I was an idiot for believing that she could be nice. Of course she only acted that way for the baby, how could I be so stupid? I don't understand how someone, _anyone_ , could change from having a sweet smiling face to dragging and knocking someone down in a split second. But then again, there are a lot of things I don't understand in Gilead. You never know what happens next. 

The Commander will be back next week, but I wish he could be back sooner. It's the Scrabble, I tell myself. It'll help keep me sane. He also has power over Serena Joy, and maybe he can make her stop this senseless punishment. _Power imbalance_ , the phrase finds me again. The Commanders have power over their Wives, and the Wives have power over us. Social hierarchy, in the old days. Now it's just a food chain. 

A piece of us gets taken away by Gilead every day. An offering to survival. The words, the children, the memories, the normality. 

I wonder if it has taken Serena Joy's sweetness away. I wonder if it has taken something from the Commander. I wonder if they never had anything to begin with, because normal people wouldn't have built this place. 

To be in the presence of Serena Joy is to be in the summer weather. The sun would be out one second and it would be pouring the next. Add a sprinkle of lightning and a drop of thunder for additional flavor. Or change the recipe to a hailstorm. The Commander, on the other hand, acts like an animal trainer. Sit, shake, roll over. Sit, smile, play Scrabble. You do what you're told, and you get the reward. I resent being compared to a dog, but it makes getting by in this household easier. 

I don't know which is more degrading, being seen as a womb on two legs or being seen as a pet. Perhaps that's not how degradation measures, perhaps there are no comparative forms for degradation. Perhaps there just _is_ , like pain and misery. But if I have to choose, I will choose the known expectations no matter what. I will choose the expectancy. A million times.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fred Waterford**

I take in the aroma of coffee and eggs, but I barely touch them. The news of the escaped Aunt is breakfast enough. I take a few deep breaths as I watch the interview she gave, forcing myself to calm down. What was that she said? Handmaids are being treated as animals, and most women are forced into their roles? I am surprised that an Aunt of all people would spread such deception.

Why isn't she grateful for what she has? Or rather, are some women so fallen that they are beyond saving? Can't they see the safe nation we've built for them, a santuary free of all sins and wants, where they can carry out their destiny in peace? The men here have embraced their duty, so why are women so weak?

I clasp my hands and open them, over and over.

"You were up early," Serena's voice disrupts my thoughts. 

"Work." I wish she could leave me be. 

"Is it the UN?" she asks. "Well, give it a month. They'll have to lift the embargo if they don't want the Euro to collapse."

 _No, it's not. And I hope you do realize you are not a part of this anymore._ But I tell her anyways, just to share the unpleasant knowledge with someone. 

"I would expect more from an Aunt," she says at the end. 

Well, me too. It's clearly futile to recapture the Aunt at this point, but I wish something could be done. Maybe it's time for a crackdown on the Aunts. 

"Just me being naive, I guess," she adds when I don't respond.

Yes, and leaving spaces in a conversation is an art one must learn. I take in few words from the suggestion she makes, something about discrediting the Aunt. But that's just ad hominem. 

"You don't need to worry about this, I promise," I tell her. She seems agitated ever since I came back, and maybe that's causing her behavior. "We've got good men working on it," I smile, hoping to ease her.

I pack up my materials and take a few bites of the toast. It's already gone cold. The coffee has also lost its flavor. Rita passes over to bring Offred breakfast, but I'm too occupied to tell her to reheat my food. I resort to the eggs. Serena sips her tea, and we finally eat in silence, much to my satisfaction. 

It doesn't last long, however. A faint crash comes from upstairs, the sound of plates and silverware dropping and clattering on the floor. I look up, just in time to see Serena frown. "Offred," she mutters.

Speaking of Offred, I haven't seen her around after I came back. Granted, I'm a busy man, and Handmaids aren't supposed to be near the Commanders save for the Ceremony, but to never even catch a glimpse of red for quite a few days...?

"Did she do something, Serena?" I ask as gently as I could muster. 

"No, just being a pain, like her usual self." She acts nonchalant, but I can hear the sudden change in her tone.

Rita comes back soon after. The tray in her hands has food piled on top in a messy way.

"What did she do this time?" Serena asks, not unkindly.

"She was on the ground, ma'am," Rita replies in a quiet voice. "She said she fainted."

"She fainted?" I spare Rita a glance. Was she sick?

"No, that's what she said," Serena spits out. Something definitely happened, but I don't ask. I wasn't too nice to our last Handmaid, that I can admit, but so wasn't Serena, and we both know what the other party's capable of. Maybe Offred did something, or maybe they both did. Serena refuses to back off, not wanting to make an appointment with the doctor, even though it's clear that Offred isn't well. Do not take a woman's meekness for weakness, hmm. 

She gives in when she hears we have the Ceremony today, God bless. 

"Well, duty calls." I gather the documents on the table and pick up my briefcase. Not a good day for girl drama.

* * *

Night falls, faster than I realize. I glance over the documents one last time and put them down in a neat pile. The Scrabble on the low desk catches my eye as I head out, and I feel the urge for a game. Offred would be in the living room, waiting for the Ceremony to begin. I'm not supposed to be in there now, of course, but we all do things we are not supposed to. The important thing is to repent afterwards, and even Serena can't get angry about that. 

So I head over.

Offred kneels in the middle of the room. What she wears falls out of place with the dark walls and the ashen carpet. Her dress reflects the faint light from the lamps, drawing attention. Her coif faintly glows. She bows her head, unmoving, as if a statue. She is caught.

"Sorry, did I startle you?" I ask. "I just want to say hello." It might an act of kindness, or it is merely compensation for what she had to endure for the past week, or what Serena and I had to endure with our last Handmaid. Either way, it helps to calm my mind.

"I haven't seen you in a while," I add.

"Hello," she slowly looks up. Her eyes glisten a little. 

"Hi," I reply. She smiles. Good girl. 

I sit down in the embroidered chair, the one meant for the Wife. I look into her eyes. "We should have a rematch tonight, don't you think?" 

She seems bewildered, confused, even, but I go on.

"I should get a chance to win," I tease, and I smile to not scare her. A scared girl is no fun. "Nine o'clock in my office, then?"

I stand up and walk out before she has a chance to respond, but I know the answer will be a _yes_. I quickly slip into the hallway that connects to my office, before the household staff and Serena come over. I watch as Rita and Nick file in side by side, and Serena follows them in soon afterwards. I wait for the longest handle on my watch to spin around twice, and I walk. 

The Ceremony starts with the usual. I read the passage from the Bible, being the only one in the Ceremony still allowed to do so. We head upstairs to the bedroom, and Serena climbs on the bed. Offred follows. I unzip my fly as I take in the strange scene, as I had every month for years. The Ceremony was a tactic to have the Wives comply to the establishment of this nation, and it worked very well. Some still support it till this day. I didn't imagine it would go on like this, though, and I sometimes wonder if Pryce or Guthrie had seen this in their vision. Godly, perhaps correct, but certainly far-fetched. Even the most devout from the world before didn't do this, I'm sure. 

I stroke, and with each movement my breathing quickens, but my member doesn't get hard. 

The sight of another body in the same red dress finds me, a different body. She also lied in between Serena's legs, she ate her meals at the end of the kitchen table, she went shopping like she was supposed to, and then she didn't. She could no longer. 

I look at Serena's face to chase the memory away. We didn't treat her in the nicest way possible, but there are Commanders that do much worse. Maybe she would've done that much sooner in a different posting. We aren't responsible, how could we be? We didn't abuse her. I even got her to play Scrabble. 

But it could be different. 

A dead girl is no fun.

My body isn't cooperating tonight. My mind isn't, either. I readjust my pants and storms into the side room. It has a china collection, I almost forgot that it's there. 

"Let me help you," Serena's voice finds me. She steps forward, and I don't stop her. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her face against mine. Her fingers touches the back of neck and travels down, dancing on my back, then my waist, then even lower. Her lips touch my cheek ever so slightly, and she lowers her head to breathe into my neck. She kisses with determination. I can feel her teeth on my collarbone. She keeps moving lower, until she's kneeling. She kisses again. Then she starts sucking. I ought to feel something, of course, at least the sensation of warmth flooding my penis, but I don't. She touches me in all the places I like, but something's missing. What she's doing gives me the impression of a sex doll, of a porn star, of someone carrying out duties they bear. 

But the Ceremony is a duty, after all. 

I try to recall the last time we had been intimate enough. Pre-Gilead, perhaps. Fred and Serena would enjoy a movie night out after a long day. Commander Waterford and Mrs. Waterford don't. 

We do have our God given duties.

"Don't," I stop her at last.

I head back to the office, and Serena doesn't object when she hears that I have more work. I start the fireplace and take in the sweet scent of burnt wood. Scrabble should be good to keep my mind off of things.

Offred knocks, and I open the door. I step to the side and hold it for her, like what men used to do. 

"Welcome to the club," I say.

She smiles, like always.

I send her to fetch the dictionary mid game. She seems hesitant when she comes back. "Did you ever study Latin?" she asks as I flip through the pages.

"Oh, yes. My parents thought it would help with the SATs." No need to hide that. She can't tell anyone, for her own sake. She smiles, and it seems that she likes the mentioning of old things. Who doesn't, quite frankly? The world before was a world full of temptation. Everyone falls for temptation. 

I win this time, without a doubt. "Well, look at that," I cock my head with a smile. "Tell me, did you let me win?"

"No, of course not," she looks down sheepishly, and I savor the expression on her face. She pauses before continuing, "I have a favor to ask, if you don't mind." 

I raise my eyebrow.

"I was just wondering if you could translate something for me," she goes on. "I think it's Latin. _Nolite te bastardes carborundorum?_ " She says that like a question, as if she's unsure. But she is sure, we are both aware. 

There's just no escaping today.

"Does it mean anything?" She uses her cheerful good girl voice. 

I distract myself by picking up the Scrabble tiles. "Not really," it slips out. Her death doesn't mean anything.

"It's a joke," I announce to the thin air as I turn to grab the old textbook. "It's only funny if you know Latin." I open the front cover but don't dwell on the childish scrawls and doodles. "Actually, it's only funny if you're a 12-year-old boy studying Latin."

"It means, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down,'" I tell her as I hand her the book. She accepts it with both hands and eyes the page curiously. It looks like she's reading the notes I made. Or trying to. Something else from the past. 

She forces out a tiny chuckle. Maybe it's too crude for her to find it funny, or maybe she's also remembering. 

"Where did you hear it?" I eye her carefully. 

"From a friend," she shrugs. She's trying so hard to act natural, it's almost cute. 

"Did you know her somehow?" I pursue. 

"What happened to her?" She answers with a question. I don't usually allow that, but I'm feeling indulgent tonight. 

"She hanged herself," I say. "I suppose she found her life unbearable." It's the truth, as much as I'd not like to admit it. One doesn't hang oneself if one's life is bearable. 

She looks at me with those wide eyes of hers. It is not accusation, for she does not dare to do so. It is not grief, either. 

"You want my life to be bearable to me," she concludes. 

Indeed.

She doesn't stop there, though. She continues on how Serena has ordered her to her room. She's a smart one, I'll give her that. She knows what men like the most, her purrs and begs. 

"I have so many flaws," she says.

"I'm starting to give up," she says.

"Like my friend," she says.

 _I'm begging for your forgivness_ , I almost hear her say. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have liked such manipulation. Manipulation is manipulation, whether the other party submits or not, and to be manipulated is to have weaknesses. But I simply would like to go to bed tonight. 

"That would be a tragedy," I say, and I mean it.

"Well, I also have a favor to ask," I continue. "I want you to kiss me." 

She looks at me, stunned. Perhaps too many events in one night has taken away her ability to act like a sweet little bunny. 

"Please," I state. Just a good night kiss. From before. 

She blinks once, twice, and finally stands up in stupor. She comes toward me in unsteady steps. She leans down when she's in front of me, and lightly puts a hand behind me neck. She gives me a light kiss on my cheek. 

"Not like that," I say. "Like you mean it." I furrow my eyebrows while offering her a light smile. Women are emotional creatures. They fall for that.

She does. I could care less whether she likes it or not. 

"We should have a rematch," I smile as she turns to leave, "so you could win again."

She nods. "It's a date."

She also says that like a question, and we are both aware she's really asking.


End file.
